Borderline: The Sacred Diaries of Susanna Kaysen
by Blythe Flynn
Summary: [Girl, Interrupted] Before Susanna is admitted to Claymoore Mental Institute, she records the workings of her mind as she descends-- spirals-- into madness.
1. One

_**Borderline: The Sacred Diaries of Susanna Kaysen **_

**Author's Note:** These are the diaries of Susanna Kaysen before she was admitted to Claymoore (or in reality, MacLean) hospital. As a victim of Borderline Personality Disorder, before her diagnosis, elements of her illness became apparent. These are her recordings of the accounts.

* * *

**Sophomore Year**

Sometimes I wonder why I keep breathing when everything inside me is screaming at me to stop. Why don't I press the blade deep enough into my cold flesh for long enough to steal my last breath? Am I too scared? My pitiful wrist banging and scratching means nothing, as I am just barely scraping the skin. My wounds are diminishing, barely leaving their mark. Soon new ones will join them.

What is pain? Is pain this empty nothingness or a distraction from reality? Something to wake us up in the morning and command us to yield to it? Writhing, wallowing in agony until we get used to its ache and I become numb. Pain is just another word for the repetitive, monotonous bruising, beating, cutting. Pain is a state of mind, it leaves others trapped in their blind conformity, but it releases me. My self-inflicted pain lets me fly, but it keeps others grounded, stifled by their concrete shoes that they wear every day, because ignoring pain makes them feel safe, secure. I welcome pain with open arms, it's the kind of visitor that stays longer than I was expecting. I don't want help, I enjoy my pain too much. My wounded spirit keeps me alive, I bleed to make sure I'm alive. I don't eat because I don't need to, food and other mindless 'pleasures' keep humanity trapped. If you become addicted to this world, you won't remember how much you hate it.

Even my writings are lame and strangled, they're like angst-ridden school-girl wonderings, gripings. Sometimes knowing how pathetic I am makes me feel physically ill. I feel so hollow, both physically and mentally. God, I wish someone would blow my fucking head off.

Does guilt ever set upon you like a shroud of death, like an incurable plague? It eats you, infects you, decays you like a deadly virus. It devours your self-esteem. I hate myself so deeply and I wish I could have the courage to eliminate my pain. I almost want someone to know, to help me kill myself, but I can't trust a soul. Even Amy would turn me in. She can be such a bitch sometimes, turning a blind eye to my problems and fixating on her petty plights. She's a cutter, too, and smart, but she never applies herself, the fool. That's why she's failing Math and French, because she never tries. She'll either end up being a great author, or some depressed person in a rubber room. I think she makes up her 'issues,' thinking it will earn her some sympathy. Imbecile, doesn't she realize that her life is a freaking walk through happy land acid trip compared to the turmoil of some other people. Not me, necessarily, but generally her life runs fairly smoothly. Does she know what it feels like to be chubby? Abused? Insulted? Carted around like an inanimate object'? Hungry? Bleeding? Of course she doesn't, she doesn't know anything outside her world. Sometimes I think certain people are destined to live a violent, tragic, psychotic life, and others simply pretend they do. Assholes, what do you know? Nothing.

You know where you'll find me in ten years from now? In an institute, in a fucking mental institute. I'll be wearing a straightjacket, strapped to a bed, mumbling mindlessly and I will be lost. Sometimes knowing that I have issues makes me think I'm just normal, horribly average. I'm simply confusing myself now, so shut me up.

Sometimes I wish my brain would just shut down and I would be stupid, because then I wouldn't think of crazed ways to do things; today, I couldn't find a pin or scissors or anything to cut myself with, so I tried using my own fingernails. God, what a loser.

I have a premonition that I'm going to be murdered…or commit suicide, although I am terrified that I'll go to hell if I kill myself. I'll probably die in terror, screaming for help and then realizing that I finally get to die.

I'm so sick of perfect, thin, pretty, smart, artistic people. They make me loathe myself even more. People like Rina Finlayson and Megan Wall make me want to lash out irrationally. And I hate how there are no males that either meet my standards…either that or I just fuck guys (and sometimes men) that are desperate. Maybe I'd be thought of as 'promiscuous' in some context, but how many guys would I have to sleep with to be considered promiscuous? Two? Five? Ten? And how many girls would a guy have to sleep with to be considered promiscuous? Eleven? Seventeen? A hundred and nine? Most men worth having don't look at me like I'm alive. Maybe it's my chin or my nose or my general ugliness. I wish I could just look like Sylvia Plath. She's so goddamned gorgeous, I wish I looked like her. Maybe life would be better.

I wish I didn't have to eat. I don't chew or swallow my tick-tacks anymore, I suck on them and then spit them out. It's getting harder and harder not to tell someone, but I can't trust anyone, as usual. I try to exercise, but I still see the flab. I weigh about 136 pounds and I'm only five foot six. How disgusting is that? My goal is 105-110, but it will be so long before I get there at this rate. Actually, 105 would be nice, but I VOW not to go lower than that.


	2. Two

**Author's Note:** Well, despite the fact that this story hasn't yet been widely accepted, it is time to continue it…perhaps it will gain more of a following later… Also, I realize that the passages are choppy and fragmented, just as a journal would flow, especially a journal written by someone of imbalanced chemicals…furthermore, I excluded writing dates at the top of each entry to eliminate excess words that are entirely unnecessary.

* * *

I feel so lightheaded today…in a way, feeling woozy is good, because it means that I'm getting thinner...I won't lose so much weight that I get sick, but I want people to envy me. Envy me like I envy them. Let the world rot in their bitter jealousy, let them writhe in their misery.

I have to get into English 11 Honours. I swear I will hurt something, myself probably, if I don't. It will be a festival of self mutilation. My wrists will look like a meat tenderizer attacked them.

133 pounds. Getting better, only 28 pounds to go…I can do it, I've already lost 12 pounds since I started exercising like a madwoman, but I still don't see any results. Maybe me shoulders are getting thinner, but that's it.

I cut my hair really short yesterday. I don't exactly know why…I guess I thought it would make me look more like some gamine beauty, but it doesn't really do anything of the sort. Maybe I'll look better with it when I'm thinner.

Sarah got into English Honours (so did I) but the standards must be low if she got in, so I don't feel like I've accomplished anything. I'll bet it'll be too hard for her and she'll drop out within three weeks.

God, I probably ate seven hundred calories this evening. Damn, I wasn't even really that hungry. I need to work it off now, but I'm too lazy…I wish I liked running long distances, maybe that would work as a way to get slim…maybe if I could run forever it would make me feel lighter, like I was flying.

What is suicide? Is it cowardice disguised as an option for death, or is it a form of euthanasia so merciful that it can only be performed on oneself? Is it putting someone hopeless out of their misery or a cruel act against the sanctity of life? Why do life's trials get to the point that we feel that the only way out is death?

Damn, damn, damn, damn, I am down to a goddamned 82 in English. I could shoot myself. Fucking Megan and Rachel have 100, damn it! Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Crazy isn't being broken or swallowing a dark secret, it's you or me amplified. God, I'm so fucking insane…

I know that I should get help, but I would fall deeper. I just realized that this is the diary of a wannabe cutter and anorexic gothesque heinous bitch. I'm so messed. I wish I could just STOP EATING! I probably put on ten pounds this weekend. I wish I could be thin, thin, thin…I want to look as thin and fragile as I feel…

Ah, blood at long last. It took me forever to find a sharp big enough to break the skin…I feel so disturbed. I think the blood looks so beautiful smeared across the page, stunning really. Hurt like hell dragging it across the paper, though, I'll probably get ink poisoning from exposing an open wound to wet ink…can you die from 'inkitis?' I think I may have hit a thicker vein with my sharp…woohoo. My blood is such a watery shade of pale, my anaemia is clearly written across the page in pallid red. Maybe I'll pass out and muv will come and do as muv always does: freak fucking out. Well, my two fresh cuts are running dry…enough blood for tonight.

Years from now I'll publish this diary…perhaps someone will find it provocative and intriguing…maybe even thought provoking…right, my life is so interesting, folks will be lined up 'round the block to see 'The Diary of Me' in print, available everywhere.

I know what it's like to want to die. How it hurts to smile. How you try to fit in, but you can't. How you hurt yourself on the outside to try to kill the thing on the inside.

I hate Mothers Day. It reminds me of how much I loathe the notion of giving birth, raising children…why would I want to put another human being through such turmoil? No child should have to go through that hell that living with me would be. Furthermore, I hate how my muv's individuality has been swallowed up by the label of housewife, and the thought of my own self being devoured even more than it already is makes my brain boil. What is the boiling point of brain?

Bloody hell…muv and dad found my cut marks (or as I affectionately call them, Polyam), but I managed to make them think it was just a rash from washing my hair while wearing my bracelets…it's a good thing that muv is kind of stupid.

Damn, school tomorrow…in some ways it's a reprieve from life, in other ways it's just another ring of hell's jubilations. Hell's Jubilee…it has a nice ring to it…

Marcus came to school on Friday to visit Dana…lucky Dana, Marcus is damned near perfect. Some days I dream that he's cheating on her while having a torrid affair with me; naturally, that will never happen. At least he talks to me, but he hugs fucking Rachel and kisses Dana…oh, I could just shoot myself.

Trigonometry will be the death of me. What the hell is with Sin, Cos and Tan? I wish Math would go away forever…my so called 'best friend' is stealing Dana from me…I could shoot her, too…(not Dana)

Damnit, damnit, damnit. I have lost all escape from me now. I can't cut myself, because my fucking parents are getting suspicious. Every night at supper now, they ask to see my wrists. I need a my goddamned escape! I am falling apart, nothing can save me now. I feel like God (if there is such a beast) has abandoned me and now he's taken away my last form of release. I hit myself on the head today (with my fist) and now it's throbbing dreadfully.

I also just realized that I don't have any close friends, not really. I also don't have as many guy friends anymore, either…I mean, I have guy friends… (but you know what they want), but no ACTUAL guy friends…one that treats me as an equal…a CLOSE guy friend. I am so fucking alone, and despite how much I like it, I'm just getting frustrated.

I haven't lost any more weight yet. I need to get down to 105 pounds (110 pounds at the highest). Less eating, more exercising. Do it, you fucking cow.


End file.
